


Isn't it Ironic?

by Thorn_Rose



Series: MadaTobi :D [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: CPR, Denial, Mouth to Mouth, Tobiramas thirsty, just not for water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorn_Rose/pseuds/Thorn_Rose
Summary: 'Ironic', he mused, as his consciousness flickered, 'that of all things, water's going to kill me.'~*~*~In which Tobirama, for some reason, almost dies from the water he usually has mastery over. And, of all people, Madara Uchiha is the one to save him. As far as Madara was concerned, he did it for his own benefit. Hashirama would be impossible if his brother died. Or so he says.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: MadaTobi :D [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087394
Comments: 2
Kudos: 189





	Isn't it Ironic?

If Hashirama didn’t finish the ever growing mound of paperwork piling up on his desk, Tobirama would slowly, but surely, tear his already silver grey hair from his scalp. His scatterbrained elder brother took every advantage not to do his work. He’d rather waste the day roaming the steadily growing village, interacting with the people settling there, both shinobi and civilians alike. Surprisingly, it was Madara Uchiha who held the reins to his brother's focus. 

Tobirama paused in his work, quill hovering a centimeter over his scroll. Madara Uchiha. The violent, quick tempered, spiky haired nuisance his brother so adored. He paused again, eyes closing. Madara’s dark eyes stared back at him from behind his closed lids. 

Sage, he had to get his head checked. Maybe his last spar with Izuna had rattled his brain more than he had thought. 

As if he had been summoned from the darkest spawns of hell, he sensed Madara’s flaming chakra, bright and volatile and constantly flaring and sparking, entering the Hokage tower. He followed Madara’s progress into the tower and up the stairs, up into the offices. He opened his eyes, bending over his work again just as Madara breezed into the room. 

He paused just within the door, dark eyes immediately landing on him. Tobirama had to repress a shiver at his intense gaze, and berated himself for it instantly. He was not the type to be distracted so easily, much less by his former enemy. Somewhat current enemy. It was complicated. 

“Hashirama summoned you,” Madara said, arching one thin eyebrow. “Are you so immersed in your work that you can’t even be bothered to notice his many, many, requests for you to come?” He tilted his head back to crack his neck, exposing the pale column of his throat. Tobirama had to look away; images of pretty dark bruises dotting his skin plagued him. 

Tobirama curled his lip at Madara’s disdainful voice, even if it sent tiny tingles of electricity pumping through him. “I’ve been busy.”

“Clearly.” Madara paced forward, long dark hair falling over his back like a waterfall. “Anyways, if you hadn’t been ignoring the many birds perched on your windowsill, you would know that Hashirama has been summoning you because a squad of shinobi from the Land of Waves are blazing a path towards Konoha and have wiped out a number of the squads sent to intercept them.” 

Tobirama glanced back at his windowsill, eyes widening to see over a dozen pigeons perched behind the glass, glaring at him with their beady little eyes. “Why didn’t you lead off with that?” he snapped, feeling his usual stab of irritation that accompanied Madara wherever he went. 

“I like seeing the panic on your face,” Madara said with a tone of smugness. Tobirama scowled, standing up. Fortunately, he was already wearing his armor. Oh, how he wanted to strangle the irritating Uchiha sometimes. With his own hair, preferably. 

“Where are they?” he demanded. 

“A couple of miles north of the main gates,” the Uchiha replied, waving a slender, gloved hand flippantly. 

Tobirama’s mouth twisted into an ugly snarl, and he reached across his desk, seized Madara by his collar, and teleported them to Hashirama’s location. 

~*~*~*~*~*~  
Tobirama bit back a colourful curse, casting a thick wall of water before him to block a volley of kunai. At first, he thought it was overkill to have all three of Konoha’s founders out to face this little squad of shinobi. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. 

These shinobi were well trained and powerful, and they worked well together. He almost envied them; he would like to see the future genin he wanted to lead work so seamlessly. 

His water wall collapsed, and he turned to check on the other two. He sighed when he saw exactly what he was expecting. Hashirama was fighting only defensively, holding his hands up placatingly. Seems he was doing as he usually did; trying to convince their attackers to stand down, to solve their conflict peacefully and without the use of violence. 

A wave of Madara’s violent, flaming chakra washed over him, and he spun around to see Madara sprout off his Phoenix Flower jutsu. It caught one of the Wave shinobi, and the man screamed and shrieked. Honestly, it seemed like only Hashirama wasn’t winning his battle, and he was the most powerful of them. 

Snorting, Tobirama turned his gaze to the Wave shinobi charging at him with two kunai. Amatur. He lifted his hands, and wove together a couple of signs rapidly. The dispersed water from his previous wall rose up to his command, twisting and turning over itself, transforming into his favoured Water Dragon jutsu. The dragon roared, lunging down and engulfing the woman. Her scream cut off with a gurgle, and after a few seconds, the dragon spat her back out. It turned to stare at him, and he allowed himself a tiny, smug smile at the beauty of his success. 

“Tobirama!” he heard Hashirama hollar. Instinctively, he flared his senses, picking up on the signature of another Wave shinobi heading his way. He whirled about, lifting his hands in preparation for another jutsu. But as fast as he was, this shinobi was, impossibly, faster. 

The water that served him so readily, so easily, surged up around him. Without his command. He had only a moment to feel a tinge of surprise before it encased him. His incomplete hand signs ground to a halt. 

‘Shit,’ he hissed inwardly. Water Prison jutsu. No movement, no air. He couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. Water was supposed to be his talent, his forte, his strength. To have it turned against him was insulting. 

He narrowed his eyes at the shinobi that trapped him. He was tall, lanky. A flare of his senses told him this shinobi, like him, had a water based chakra. And it was strong. Not as strong as his, but formidable. 

The shinobi grinned at him, clenching his fist. The water prison grew smaller, pressing down against his arms and the back of his neck. The temperature dropped suddenly, sharply, and before his mind could catch up with his body, he drew in a shocked gasp. Water poured down his throat, and into his lungs. ‘Crap,’ he growled. ‘That’s not good.’ His lungs burned in protest, and the urge to cough was overwhelming. But he wouldn’t move; his limbs were locked in place, and he could do nothing about his predicament. The realization brought with it an unwelcome surge of panic. ‘Ironic’, he mused to himself, as his consciousness flickered, ‘that of all things, water’s going to kill me.’

~*~*~*~*~*~**~

“Tobiramaaaaaa!” Hashirama’s wail had him spitting out a fireball that finally caught his slippery opponent and spinning on his heels. His Sharingan spun rapidly, taking in the scene that met him. 

Hashirama had finally given up on trying to sway his opponent. His Mokton rose up from the ground, impaling the sinobi on a dozen or so roots. And Tobirama…

His breath caught, and he felt his chakra surge violently. Of all people, Tobirama was caught in a water prison jutsu, and looking right pissed about it. Or at least, he had looked pissed. His red eyes, always so haughty and bright with defilence, were nearly closed, and he was slumped over in his trap. 

Hashirama roared, and Madara turned his gaze to him. The elder Senju was terrifying when angry, and he was glad he didn’t often see this side of him. Roots sprang up from the ground, skewering the remaining shinobi, violently sending them to their deaths. Including the one that had Tobirama in his cage. 

As the shinobi died, so did his Water Prison. The water splashed out of its form, spreading out on the ground, and Tobirama dropped with it, as lifeless as a boned fish. “Tobi!” Hashirama whined, dropping to his knees neck to his brother and shaking him. Tobirama was limp, unmoving and unresponsive. 

“Oh Sage, Tobirama!” Hashirama cried, grabbing his brother's shoulders and shaking him aggressively, panic taking over him at the thought of his last little brother dying right before him, a victim to his own beloved water. 

Inexplicably, an image of Tobirama, with one eyebrow raised and a smug smirk on his face, flashed before his eyes. Then the thought of Tobirama never exchanging taunts and sharp, witty words with him again sent a wave of sickness clenching at his guts. It wasn’t a foreign feeling; it was fear, unwanted and unexpected. He usually only felt it when one of his brothers had died, or when Izuna nearly had, all that time ago. 

“Oh, I can’t watch this anymore,” he growled, annoyed at Hashirama’s clueless attempts to help his brother. He marched over, shoving him out of the way. Before Hashirama could even begin to voice his complaints, Madara knelt down beside Tobirama, reaching for the upper fastenings of his armor. 

“Help me take this off,” he ordered, giving Hashirama a look so dark and cold that he obeyed wordlessly, albeit confusedly. Within seconds, the blue armor was discarded and tossed aside. Madara half clenched his fist, rubbing it over Tobirama’s collarbone. When that prompted no response, he leaned over, placing a hand over his chest. There was no movement. 

“Oh, perfect,” he grumbled. “Stupid Senju Demon, drowning. Of all things.” He traced his fingers over the others chest, placing his palm down firmly and resting his other hand on top, lacing his fingers. He shifted his weight, and pounded down hard on his chest. 

CPR wasn’t his favorite thing to perform, but it was one he had done many times. Once, when he and Izuna were much younger and Izuna had fallen into the river. Madara had hauled him out of the water, limp and lifeless, and brought him back through nearly 15 minutes of the procedure. Then there was that one time with that young Uchiha girl when he was 12. And another time, with another girl when he was 15. And now, he was doing it to Tobirama. Of all people. 

30 beats later, and now for 2 breaths. He stopped compressions, tilting Tobirama’s face up, and opening his mouth with a thumb on his chin, pulling it down. He pinched Tobirama’s nose, swept down, and covered his mouth with his own. He exhaled into Tobirama’s mouth, watching the rise of his chest. Another breath, another rise. Compressions again. 

Strange, he mused. He could fight for hours on end without feeling the strain. But already, compressions were beginning to tire him out. ‘I’ll keep at it,’ he thought fiercely. ‘It’s not like I care if Tobirama dies. Good riddance. I don’t like him. Or think about him more than I should. Or wonder what he looks like when-’

He shook himself from his train of thought. Nope, abort. He was not going down that trail. Not again. No, he barely tolerated Tobirama. Much less liked him. He was only doing this because he was his best friend’s little brother. And if Tobirama died, Hashirama would whine and cry and be depressed for a long while. And Madara really, really didn’t want to deal with that. 

30 more compressions, two more breaths. Repeat. It was only after almost 4 minutes of CPR that Tobirama’s chest began to rise by itself. Madara leaned back, hands hovering over his chest, ready to resume if he needed. But Tobirama was stirring, coughing, and he backed up with relief. 

Hashirama nearly bowled him over as he lunged at Tobirama with a dramatic cry, grabbing him and hugging him, relieved that his brother wasn’t on death’s apparent door. Tobirama seemed too dazed and disorientated to do anything about it. It was an odd expression to see on his face. Cute, the treacherous part of his brain whispered. But odd. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hashirama gave him his dramatic thanks at the worst possible time, at the worst place. He was walking through Konoha’s busy, crowded streets with Izuna, meandering his way towards the Hokage tower, when Hashirama bounded around the corner and spotted him. A huge grin crossed over his face, and he launched himself at Madara’s unsuspecting back. 

“Madaraaaaaaaaa,” he cried in delight. A pit of dread welled up in him, and he spun around, just in time to be knocked to the ground by Hashiramra’s overly enthusiastic tackle. He hit the ground hard on his back, Hashirama flopped on top of him, arms wound around him like a vice and blubbering great big tears all over the front of his dark mantle. 

Izuna stopped and stared at them with both amusement and irritation. He grinned down at Madara’s dismay, crossing his arms and not bothering to try and scare away the bemused onlookers. The sight of two of Konoha’s most powerful shinobi tussling on the ground was not overly common. 

Madara squirmed and kicked at Hashirama, cursing so violently that a woman with a young child gasped and covered her daughter's ears. “Get OFF OF ME,” he bellowed, or as much as he could. He could barely breathe due to Hashirama’s iron grip on him. 

“But Madara,” Hashirama sobbed, joyful tears still streaking down his cheeks. “I HAVE to say thank you, Madara! You saved Tobi! Without you, I…” He trailed off, and burst into a fresh bout of tears. 

“Hashirama,” Madara hissed, clawing at his so-called best friend. But Hashirama was relentless. “Izuna.” Madara turned to his brother pleadingly, but the traitorous rat just grinned at him, turning on his heel and pacing a few meters away. Out of reach, or helping distance. He, of course, knew all about the whole Tobirama almost drowning incident. And also Madara’s not crush on him. Which he continued to deny, vehemently. 

“Traitor,” Madara hissed at him, driving his knee into Hashirama’s gut. The big oaf didn’t even seem to notice. As he didn’t actually want to hurt Hashirama (they were, after all, best friends), he resigned himself to his fate of being suffocated by the Senju’s affections. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night, Tobirama paced the streets of Konoha restlessly. His fingers, as they so often had the past few days, drifted up to touch his lips. Only a few days ago, he had woken up to his brothers teary face and Madara’s disdainful one, turning away. His lips had tasted like ash; if ash could be sweet and addicting. He tried hard not to think about it over the past days, but it was impossible. Madara’s lips over his, and he hadn’t even been awake to enjoy it. If only he could rectify that wrong. 

He paused misstep, considering. He had seen Madara around, briefly, since his near drowning incident. He hadn’t said thank you. Usually, he wasn’t the type. But maybe…

Even disoriented and confused, he had seen the slight colouring of the Uchiha’s fair skin as he moved away from Tobirama to allow Hashirama to hug and coddle him. Maybe, just maybe… 

Mind made up, he flared his senses, locating Madara’s chakra. There, in the Hokage tower. Up in his office. He spun on his heel and made his way over. His mind was racing, but he refused to let his more rational thoughts override his impulses. Just this once. Maybe it was time for him to finally stop shoving down the facts. 

Madara was pretty. 

He was strong. 

Fiercely loyal. 

Protective. 

Sassy and witty and more than capable of meeting him head to head, both physically and mentally. 

‘I don’t want to admit it,’ he mused as he walked. ‘But it’s not rational to ignore things. He’s been distracting lately. I have to confront that issue.’ 

He arrived at the tower, and without letting himself hesitate, marched up the stairs. He flung open the door to Madara’s office without knocking, and swung it shut behind him. 

Madara was standing in front of the desk, his back to him, rifling through a stack of papers. “Evening, Senju,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure, oh great white demon of the Senju?” 

Tobirama ignored his biting sarcasm. It was basically a given, when dealing with him. “I never properly thanked you,” he said, crossing his arms and staring at the shadow of his back. Madara hummed. 

“You mean for saving your pitiful life?” He laughed without humour. “Believe me. I didn’t do it for you. It was all for my own benefit.” 

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. Surely, Madara didn’t mean it the way he was taking it, but it would be fun to press his buttons. 

“Oh? Is that so? Am I that charmingly irresistible that you couldn’t let me die?” 

The sound that escaped Madara’s throat was comical, and he whirled around. Tobirama was pleased to see a faint dusting of pink colouring his cheeks. 

“No!” he squawked. “I did it so that I wouldn’t have to deal with Hashirama after you died! Can you imagine how impossible he would be? I have enough of my plate, I don’t need-”

During his rant, Tobirama ghosted closer, and Madara cut himself off when he realized how close he had gotten. Unconsciously, he took a step back, right into the edge of his desk. Tobirama inched closer, lifting his hands slowly. He let Madara watch them, gave him time to decide to move or stay. 

His dark eyes followed his movements carefully, but he didn’t move. Tobirama placed his hands on either side of Madara’s face, leaning closer. “Thank you,” he said seriously. “For saving my life.” 

“I didn’t do it for you.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” He leaned a little closer. 

“Yes,” Madara said; it was little more than a breath of a whisper. Before his more rational side could take precedence, Tobirama swooped in, leaning down to compensate for the height difference, and kissed him. 

For a moment, Madara didn’t move, frozen in surprise. Then, hesitantly, he pressed back. Tobirama took that as permission, moving one hand from his face to his waist, pulling him closer, while at the same time pushing him back against the desk. The edge had to be digging hard into his lower back, but the Uchiha voiced no complaint. 

Slowly, his hands came up over Tobirama’s chest, gloved fingers digging into the dark fabric of his shirt. Pleased with the development, Tobirama pulled back to breathe, watching his dark eyes slowly slide open to stare at him. 

“What,” was all he said, and Tobirama smirked at his eloquence. 

“What?” he parroted back. He finally gave in to his desires from long ago, moving down to mouth lazily along his jaw and down his neck. Madara made a breathy sound, eyes flicking shut and head tilting back to allow him better access. 

“We should, ah, probably, ah-haaaa, Tobirama!” 

Tobirama pulled back with a tiny grin, admiring the mark he had just bitten into his neck. “Mhm? You were saying?” 

Through his shirt and his gloves, he could feel Madara’s nails dig into his skin. “We should, mhmm, talk about this, probably.” 

“So graceful,” Tobirama quipped sarcastically, moving from his path to nip at Madara’s upper lip. The other made a high pitched sound, and while Tobirama would have loved to tease him about it, to playfully mock the prideful man for making embarrassing noises, he figured it could wait for a little bit. For now, he had other things to worry about. Such as putting that desk to good use and letting some of his well hidden desirees see the light.


End file.
